


Soldiers of a Different War

by Light_In_Shadows



Series: SuperWhoLock Drabbles [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Drabble, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 15:37:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1653752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Light_In_Shadows/pseuds/Light_In_Shadows
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This might not be his war - there were never any demons or archangels in Afghanistan. But John Watson is still a doctor, and he'll put the soldiers back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soldiers of a Different War

**Author's Note:**

> Part of a collection of SuperWhoLock drabbles that I plan on adding to whenever inspiration strikes. They can be read in any order and can be seen as interconnected or completely separate. It's completely up to the reader's interpretation.

He doesn't hear the nearly imperceptible sound that heralds their arrival – rarely does. The explosions and rapid-fire of machine guns in Afghanistan have done his ears no favors. But the ragged intake of breath that slices through the silence of the flat a moment later alerts him just as well.

He's on his feet, newspaper on the floor and hand halfway to the gun that isn't there by the time John recognizes the two figures that have just appeared across the sitting room. Alarm changes to relief as soon as he takes in the beaten leather jacket and dirty trench coat, then turns into worry just as quickly – as soon as he sees the way that one man is supporting the other.

Castiel's bright azure eyes lock onto him from across the room, piercing through him with a desperation that John has seen in more than enough soldiers' eyes.

He's beside them in three strides, hands reaching automatically to grab Dean from the side that Castiel doesn't already have a death grip on. The boy's head hangs like a doll's, face soaked in sweat and pale as death. Colorless.

Fear coiling in his stomach, John looks up to meet raging blue eyes once more.

“You will heal him,” the angel commands, with all the finality of Heaven, even as the color seems to drain from his own face. “I cannot.” The words have barely left his lips before he collapses to his knees.

“Jesus,” John hisses, scrambling now to support the larger man's weight on his own. With no small amount of difficulty, he manages to stagger the last couple of feet over to the couch, carefully easing the elder Winchester down onto it. Taking a few deep breaths, he briefly turns his attention back to where an Angel of the Lord Is now lying crumpled on the floor, seemingly unconscious but clearly breathing. John debates for half a moment, torn. Having witnessed the resilience of the angel in question on multiple occasions, however, he quickly makes a determination of urgency, and in seconds is crouched down beside the sofa.

With Dean laid out the way he is now, rather than slumped over upright and half-hidden against another's body, it's easy to see the blood that soaks the right half of his shirt. Judging by the tear in the fabric, John assumes shoulder wound, from a knife rather than a bullet. Size of tear says stab, not slash. Amount of blood says deep.

Moving with sure military efficiency, John climbs to his feet and makes his way down the hall and into the washroom. Scrubs his hands twice and grabs the first aid kit from under the sink. From that point on it's all just well-worn procedure. Cut away the shirt and clean the wound. Local anesthetic. And then John is stitching him up, dressing him in sutures that have adorned a thousand other soldiers. At one point, an angel in a trench coat takes up silent vigil by the end of the couch, something which John finds remarkably easy to ignore.

It's ironic, John thinks as he ties and snips the thread, lays a plaster over top of that neat row of stitches. A couple years ago he missed the war, wasn't certain how he was meant to live outside of it. Now he realizes that his discharge was merely a change in deployment. He's still in charge of putting soldiers back together, even if these are fighting a very different kind of war.


End file.
